Assassin's Creed: Forsaken
by Demalia
Summary: "Armande de Seville was already someone Desmond did not like... Where Altair had merely been misled, Armande was... evil."
1. Chapter 1

The dream - if it is a dream - alway begins in basically the same way. I'm going to meet him, and when I get there he's happy to see me, welcoming, like family. I feel like I'm coming home after a long time away.

We sit down and talk, and at first everything's great. I don't know what we say. I don't know what it is that I say, but whatever it is, his face darkens. He stares at me from under his hood, which even now, he wears. Then, suddenly, he's chasing me, angry, filled wiith rage. And I run.

The dream varies here. I've fled to the east, to the west, north, and south. I've tried to evade him by dodging New York traffic, tried to lose him in Amazon swamps, and I've hidden among workers building the pyramids. I run across countries, nations, the entire wold and time itself. But always... Always he finds me in the end. I can't run from him because he's part of me, but more importantly, I can't run from him because I know that whatever he wants to do to me, I deserve. What I don't know, is why.

Finally, he tracks me down. He could kill me quickly from the shadows, but he doesn't. I always end up on the ground, looking up at him, at Altair's face. My face.

He yells at me. And I know whatever he's saying is truth, and it hurts me worse than the blade he's drawn from his scabbard. Again, his face contorts in rage. And again, it's my face. As he swings the blade down, the subtle differences extinguish and it IS my face I'm looking at, except now I'm on my feet standing over him and my blade is plummeting towards his heart. My heart.

Desmond flung himself off the ground and away from the imaginary blade. In the process, he flung himself over the edge of his bunk, and nearly to the cement floor below, if he hadn't caught himself on the rail.

"Whhaaa!" Shaun shot up from his mattress, and gun in each hand, and Lucy had already vaulted to the floor, ready.

Rebecca continued to snore, unaffected.

"What's going on, Desmond?" Lucy demanded, staring about, jumping at shadows and trying to see in the dark. Desmond waved her back into bed and climbed (favoring his right leg, which had been battered against the metal bunk railings) back up and under his blankets.

"Sorry. Sorry... I had a nightmare."

"Ah..." Shaun flopped back onto the pillow, still holding both guns. Desmond wasn't sure he had even woken completely.

Lucy relaxed and moved back towards her bunk. She paused and glanced his way.

"You haven't slept well, lately, Desmond. Anything in particular bothering you?"

"Besides the coming apocolypse? No, can't think of anything," Desmond replied dryly. Lucy sighed and nodded in agreement; Desmond expected her to climb back into bed. Instead, she turned and walked out of the room. The door snapped shut softly, and Desmond realized in the following silence that Lucy hadn't been sleeping very well, either.

Since escaping the warehouse, the four of them had moved north. Lucy had spoken of a cabin in the mountains where they might find sanctuary, but they had come across some problems.

Two days out, Lucy returned from scouting flustered and irritable. It was as close as she came to being afraid, and that worried Desmond enough that he had dropped everything to listen to her report.

The Templars were moving. They had made quick work of the map Desmond had revealed to them, unwittingly, and set teams to hunt out the Pieces of Eden that were accessible. Unfortunately, there was one quite close. And in Desmond, Lucy, Rebecca, and Shaun's path to the mountains.

"We can't just let them take it," Lucy insisted. "This is all the force the Assassins can send, right here," she gestured to the four of them gathered together, "and if we can't get this artifact from our own vault before they can, the world really is doomed."

The plan was simple. Enter the Assassin vault that the Piece of Eden was secreted in. Don't let the Templars take it. Don't lose any more people than the Assassins had already. Shaun, however, had a nasty way of complicating things.

"Look at the map," he pointed at the glowing, globe projection the Apple had showed Altair. "The Piece that they must be hunting for is supposed to be further north, isn't it?"

"This map is centuries old," Lucy argued matter-of-factly. "And our maps today aren't perfect, either. There's enough reasonable distortion to explain the displacement."

"Hmm," Shaun replied, unconvinced. "Well, that's all very well. We can assume you aren't wrong, for now," he scoffed, annoyed, "but there is still much research to be done if we're going to beat them in there. Whatever traps or locks or codes our Assassin ancestors have set up, we need to find out where they are and... and..." he trailed off, coming to the same conclusion Rebecca and Lucy and even Desmond did at the same time.

And that's how Desmond found himself, once again, slipping into the past, into a new host with a new past in a new time. 1700's France.

"So... we're looking at a guy named Armande," Rebecca reported. "He was an assassin right before the French Revolution. I think he dies somewhere in the chaos, because Shaun and I haven't been able to find much about him after things settle down."

"We're putting you in about ten years before the Storming of the Bastille," Shaun added. "So you won't be in any immediate danger of being there when Armande gets his head chopped off or some such nonsense."

"Some such nonsense?" Desmond asked, worried. "Anything in particular I should worry about?"

Shaun's eyes slipped fractionally towards Lucy before answering. "Doubtful. Just follow him around like you always do, and we'll have what we need in no time. This is the most recent synching yet, so we don't need to dive in decades before the actual information, like we had to with Ezio."

Desmond almost groaned at the memory. He could have done without the thirty years of aging that Ezio had experienced, feeling in fast forward as his body became heavier and slower with age as time slipped away. He already felt old at 29, without having to live the whole life cycle in a few days.

"Thank God."

"Of course, Armande, is already 37 when you're synching up with him, so don't expect to feel like a spring chicken."

"That WOULD be too much to ask," Desmond muttered.


	2. Chapter 2

"Oh, I'm still an assassin."

The man Desmond spoke to snorted derisively. "For hire."

Desmond's body, the body of the ancestor he shadowed, rolled his massive shoulders and grinned widely. "More profit to be made from petty fools who think death solves their problems."

Armande de Seville was already someone Desmond did not like. From the moment he had slipped into this ancestor's mind and form, there had been a consistent arrogant amusement and disdain of not only people, but order in general. This conversation, itself, was a true representation of Armande's attitude: morals and greater good be damned, I'm making some coin from it.

His acquaintance, as well, seemed annoyed, to say the least, at Armande's behavior. "You've got some real balls, Armande, to sit here and say this to me. Have you no honor?"

"Nope."

The other man, one by the name of Gerard, sat back with a frustrated huff. The two men sat at a pleasant little pub, on the edge of the city and near the open June fields. It was mid-morning, and a heavy layer of summer humidity already blanketed the countryside. It swept into the city streets between the buildings and warmed the bricks, and Armande enjoyed the prickle of the sunlight against his skin. He enjoyed the freedom of wearing or not wearing his assassin's armor and robes, though he typically did wear the bladed vambraces that had been his since before his exile.

The assassins had thought to take them when they cast Armande out. The attempt had been unsuccessful.

"Armande," Gerard began again, as somberly as he was able. "You cannot continue this way. You escaped with your life, must you flaunt it at all times to the Brotherhood? They wil not leave you be forever."

"They best do just that," Armande answered, sobered and no longer amused. "Or else they will have greater problems than mere Templars to contend with."

"And you speak so lightly!" Gerard scolded, furious. "This war has been our lives and cause for thousands of years- who are you to dismiss it so foolishly? You, of all!"

Desmond agreed with Gerard, and had to rein in his thoughts before he began to desynchronize with Armande. Armande, it seemed (from what Shaun could scrape together) had been somewhat of a key player in the Assassin's war with the Templars. As Altair had been, his rank had been the highest, his talent the most pronounced, and his future the brightest of those his age, and brighter than many elder assassins.

But, unlike Altair, who had been arrogant and milsed, Armande was simply... evil.

"I take my leave, now," Gerard sighed, standing.

"I agree."

In a flash, Armande had snatched Gerard's collar and dragged him close. The metallic whisper of the hidden blade shooting from its vambrace was the only sound for several moments as Armande held Gerard close and stared, challenging, into his eyes.

"Why?" Gerard whispered, honestly confused. Shooting pain pulsed from the wound in his abdomen, but it was not fatal. Armande had not plunged the whole length of the blade through Gerard's guts, only nicked him.

"Because if you die, who will there be to remind the Assassins of my demand?" Armande answered evenly.

Gerard slapped Armande's hand away and shoved him; Armande let him do it, regaining balance easily. Less than an inch of his blade was colored in Gerard's blood, and he wiped that absently on a napkin that had rested on their abandoned table. Gerard's dark clothes showed only a wet patch over his naval where the blade had pierced him. This was fortunate, because a moment later, the waitress bustled out mindlessly, seeing that they had stood and intended to leave, and had begun clearing the remains of their breakfast. She froze when she saw the bloody napkin.

"Monsieur, are you hurt?" she asked Armande, who happened to be closer. He rewarded her concern with a charming grin.

"I am quite all right, Madamoiselle, but my friend here has managed to cut himself on my knife. An unfortunate habit," the charming smile didn't falter as Armande lifted his eyes and met Gerard's. "He will be fine, we were just leaving."

The waitress gave a shy smile and blushed prettily, scurrying back inside with their dishes.

"Now as before, you are denied," Gerard spat at Armande. "We could not take your weapons, armor, or life. But there is one thing you cannot have, and it remains out of your reach."

"I WILL find a way," Armande replied softly. He took a slow step forward. Gerard took a step back, and cursed himself for giving way. Armande continued to stare, maliciously, without his usual arrogance, as he spoke. "Send someone to me, anyone, or I will be forced to find other means."

"You're madder than we once thought, if you expect capitulance so easily. My answer is no, and I daresay the Brotherhood will agree."

"You take that message back to them," Armande murmured, turning away. "I doubt very much that I will go another year without telling them myself."

Desmond stretched and took a deep breath, glad to be back in his 29-year-old body, even if it was a bit smaller than that of Armande's. At least Altair had been of a like age with Desmond; Ezio, though it had been depressing, at least gave Desmond a chance to acclimate to the changes age brought. Armande threw him right in and said "good luck to ya!"

And that, he thought, was the nicest way Armande could be expected to put it.

"Here..." Rebecca murmured absently. Her fingers were roving over the computer keys, and her eyes didn't move for a moment from the screen. Shaun hovered behind her, leaning down and pointing occaisionally at something on the computer. "That little scene was about a year early... I think... Let's try to put you in a bit later and save some time."

Desmond nodded and leaned back again.

"Who are you?"

"...shipyard at the edge of the city..."

"...be back for him..."

Stonework and mildew. Dark, dank tunnels and the soft rhythm of someone slightly short of breath.

Rooftops in the moonlight.

And the ocean... the ocean stretching under a glass sky and diamond stars towards an all-but-invisible smudge of land sweeping across the horizon.

"No bueno," Desmond rasped, crawling back into consciousness in a state of slight nausea. "Not going to happen."

"Not too surprising," Shaun answered. "You usually can't jump right into the action, can you?"

"Sometimes." Desmond closed his eyes and relaxed, trying to let his stomach settle. Desynchronization, or finding himself unable to synchronize at all, was disorienting. "Not this time."

"We'll have to ease into it," Rebecca grumbled. "It might take an extra day or so, since we have to get through at least a year leading up to whatever we're watching for."

"Somehow, I doubt we're going to get anything much from him," Desmond commented, still cocooned in the Animus 2.0. "He's exiled; why would the Assassins tell him where their vault is?"

"I don't know," Lucy shrugged. "He certainly seemed determined. Do you think the Pieces of Eden were what he wanted from the Brotherhood?"

"No," Desmond looked around at them as if it should be obvious. No one responded, so he continued. "He wasn't thinking about the Pieces. Armande wanted a child."


	3. Chapter 3

The other three hung in stunned silence, all staring at Desmond.

"W-well, they didn't... you know..." Rebecca stammered. "The Assassins didn't just... give him some woman, did they?"

"He didn't reproduce asexually," Shaun quipped. "Desmond wouldn't be able to go back to Armande if he wasn't related to him directly."

Desmond watched their disgust with a bit of guilt; Armande's desire for an heir, someone to continue his bloodline, was the only thing about the man that Desmonnd had at all been able to relate to. "Hey, guys... this isn't really a problem, is it? I mean, it doesn't have anything to do with, well... anything."

"You're right," Lucy agreed. "But hey- It's getting kind of late, and if Rebecca's right, we'll need most of a day to get what we need. Let's just go to bed, for now, and start up fresh tomorrow, ok?"

Lucy's eyes jumped to Shaun and back almost too quickly for Desmond to notice. He pretended he hadn't, and nodded.

"Sounds like a plan." As soon as he was disconnected from the Animus, Desmond stood. "Night."

No one else went to the door with him, but Desmond walked out of the room anyway.

As soon as he was out of sight, he spun around and inched as close to the door as he could, straining to hear any conversation or secret confidence that the others might be sharing.

They were whispering.

Desmond stilled his own breathing and tried to focus every sense he had on hearing their words, but none of it was intelligible. Lucy and Shaun were definitely the ones whispering, though.

Rebecca walked around the corner then, and smack into Desmond. Both nearly jumped a foot in the air, and the whispering stopped.

"What are you doing?" Rebecca asked, holding her chest as if her heart had nearly stopped. "You're going to give me a heart attack, here!"

"S-sorry," Desmond offfered quickly, and hurried back down the hall before Lucy or Shaun came over to see what was the matter. The last thing he wanted was to be completely caught eavesdropping like a kid at Christmas. So what if they wanted to keep things from him?

Desmond was keeping a few secrets of his own.

The midday sun beat down onto Desmond's head like a physical force. Sunlight was everywhere; reflecting off the dirt streets, off the stone buildings, even off the water of the river that snaked through Damascus. The heat was oppressive.

No one noticed his strange, 21st century clothing as he dodged between citizens of this 12th century city.

Desmond saw a gate up ahead, to the side of the street. It was shaded by leafy palm trees, and he ducked into the cool sitting garden with relief. Stone benches lined three sides, and a small fountain sparkled in the sparse shafts of sun that slipped through the leaves overhead. It was deserted of people, save for one.

"Desmond," Altair nodded his head in greeting; he was as he always was when Desmond had shadowed him; not very old, not very visible, and arrogant.

Desmond took the bench on the wall adjacent to the one Altair occupied. Both were completely shaded, and therefore cool enough to soothe away the worst of the heat. Foot traffic continued to filter noise into their small private meeting, but neither took any notice. It was a comfort more than anything. This way, nothing they said would be easily overheard.

Desmond wasn't certain whether or not he needed to worry one way or the other; was this real at all? But it made him and his ancestor more comfortable, in any case.

"Something troubles you." It was a statement. Altair snorted with a self-depreciating grin. "What else is new. Something troubles all of us, at any given time."

"I feel like I'm being left in the dark," Desmond answered the unasked question. "They don't trust me, or don't think I can handle whatever they know, or something."

"Your comrades?"

"Yeah."

"Hmm," Altair leaned back agaisnt the stone wall in thought. "Do not be too offended. I, for one, am glad. Glad that almost a thousand years has not eroded our senses. That they are still suspicious is a good sign, especially given what you have said of what your world has become. What... our world... has become." Altair closed his eyes. He looked tired. Desmond rolled his shoulders, and was immediately reminded of Armande.

He gave Altair a brief explanation of what had happened the previous day. "Armande... I seriously don't like him."

"He sounds like an ass."

Desmond chuckled. "I agree."

"Can you not find the entrance to this Assassin vault without aid?" Altair asked.

"I feel like that's part of the problem," Desmond confessed. "Here we are, in this old bunker, and we've got the Animus in a half-baked set up where we spend half our time expecting Templars to descend on us like a horde of fucking flying monkeys and the other half combing through my blood memories looking for answers. It feels like-"

"Fucking flying monkeys?" Altair interrupted with a smirk.

"Yeah, fucking flying monkeys. And it feels like the only reason they keep me around is so that I can be a source of information. But they won't tell me anything."

Altair sighed. "It is our nature to assume the worst. Nothing is true. Everything is permitted. If they do not trust you, it is because they are wise."

Swallowing a retort, Desmond let Altair's words sink in. And he understood. Had it only been a couple weeks since he had been abducted by Abstergo? If that. The world was in chaos, and Templars were everywhere. Why should any of them, Shaun, Rebecca, or Lucy, trust him at all? Desmond nodded.

Altair smirked again, but this time it was in approval. "Good." He glanced skyward. "The hour grows late. I will see you again, my brother. Stay alive. Remember the Creed."

Desmond opened his eyes.

For several nights, now, since slipping ino Altair's memory without the Animus at the warehouse, Desmond found himself going back. Usually to Altair's time. Was it a hallucination? Was it a dream? And then, those nights when Altair hunted Desmond through space and time... they were not frequent, but growing more so.

Sitting up, it felt to Desmond like he hadn't slept for long. His eyes were lead weights, and his pillow felt like a magnet to the back of his head. He let himself flop backwards, and drift.

Silence. Wonderful, serene silence.

Desmond snapped awake again. There was no Rebecca snoring. No Shaun murmuring in his sleep. And Lucy's soft, even breaths as she slept were missing, also. Desmond blinked into Eagle Vision; he was alone in the room.

He slinked out of bed to the floor and hunted about for his shoes. He decided not to bother after a moment, also leaving his shirt and sweater where they lay. He slept in his jeans- even Desmond was becoming too paranoid to be caught in his shorts- and for creeping around in the night jeans would do. He stepped the few feet to the door, and turned the handle slowly.

It didn't make a sound. He cracked it open, peering into the shadowed hall. Nothing glowed in his Eagle sight, so he pulled the door open far enough to move through and entered the hallway.

He still saw nothing, but he could hear the muffled whispers of his companions.

Desmond froze. Altair's words were still fresh in his mind, and it made him unsure. There was no reason for the others to trust him so readily, but should that mean Desmond had the right to do whatever he felt the need to do? Did their distrust give him an excuse to listen in?

Maybe not, but he was going to do it anyway.

There was no door closing off the room in which the Animus was set up; Desmond slithered nearer to the doorway, wondering if Armande would have done something like this, and set his face as close to the edge as possible, straining his every pore to hear what was being said.

"I don't like this setup," Rebecca sighed. "The electric output isn't what it was in the warehouse. And that's kind of sad... without steady power, I'm not sure what could happen. If Desmond is in there when the power dies..."

"He'll just come out of the Animus, Rebecca," Lucy answered flatly. Both were still whispering.

"What if he doesn't?"

"He WILL." Lucy seemed to believe it; either that, or she was just very convincing. Well, she had fooled Abstergo for however many months she worked there, so Desmond wasn't certain he was willing to take her word for it.

"Shaun? Are you awake?"

"Hmmwah? Wha? Oh... yeah, I'm awake."

"What's you're deal? Why don't you go to bed?" Rebecca teased.

"The same reason you're still up," Shaun snapped.

"Shh!" Lucy and Rebecca both shushed him. There was silence, and Desmond held his breath.

"Desmond." Desmond himself almost didn't hear it. Lucy's voice had lost its insistence and had flattened to a defeated sigh.

"I don't know what he does in his sleep, but he does it loud," Shaun muttered.

"Bad dreams are the most common side-effect of the Animus," Lucy answered. "All the subjects had it. It got worse... all of them suffered worsening of the nightmares the more time they spent in the machine."

"Should we make him take a break?" Rebecca suggested. She sounded sheepish, as if he question had been accompanied with a shrug.

Desmond heard Lucy take a breath, as if about to answer, then she stopped. For a frantic moment, Demond thought they had detected him, and started back down the hall.

"Not yet." Desmond froze and turned about, inching back to the door. "We... we NEED to get into that vault. One more day isn't going to have Desmond seeing himself... shooting cannons at Tripoli or... or assassinating the Romanovs."

"Yet," both Rebecca and Shaun answered darkly. Desmond could practically hear the wariness on their faces.

It was time to go. Desmond moved back to the door of the barracks and crept inside. Once he was huddled back under the blankets, however, he felt himself trembling slightly.

Not shooting cannons. Not assassinating kings. Not going back. Desmond swallowed dryly and blocked it out. He wouldn't go back. He was staying in this time. He wouldn't go back.


	4. Chapter 4

"Desmond?"

"Wha-?" His arms and torso were caugh up in the blanket, so Desmond suffered a moment of frantic alarm, thrashing to free himself from imaginary captors. He stopped and looked at Lucy, and down at the blanket, and answered again. "Yeah?"

"Well... It's almost noon."

Desmond looked at his watch; sure enough, the morning had nearly passed. Had he slept that whole time? Kicking the blankets off, Desmond nodded.

"Sorry. I'll be right out."

Lucy returned the nod and took a step towards the door. She paused with her hand on the knob. "Desmond, you... You slept well?"

"Yeah. Like a rock."

"Good," Lucy let a small smile slip out, and then left the room.

Jumping to the floor, Desmond's limbs felt heavy with sleep. He hadn't experienced that in a while; puling on his shoes and sweater he found himself yawning uncontrollably. Everyone else must have already gone out to the Animus room (as it had come to be called in the few days they had been here) so Desmond followed Lucy and did the same.

Shaun and Rebecca were already at work and didn't notice Desmond come in. Lucyspared him a small smile, then returned to her computer screen. Desmond trailed through the wires and haphazardly-stacked paraphenalia carefully, moving ever towards the Animus set up in the middle of it all.

"Whoa! Desmond! Didn't see you there," Rebecca greeted him, then set about to power up the Animus. "Go ahead and sit down, I've got it about ready to rumble."

"Sorry I slept so long." Desmond settled into the Animus, eyeing the IV needle with unease. "You guys should have woken me up."

"Yes, well, we know you need your beauty sleep, but we do have a long day ahead," Shaun muttered.

Armande watched through hawk eyes as the man shuffled about his manor, unaware that he was observed. It was becoming quite late, and a swell of fog had begun to lift from the city streets, masking Armande's presence in the shadows further. The noble inside the house, over the stone and iron gate, across the vast lawns, and on the second story of his abode, moved from room to room, having no idea of what they night would hold.

A shiver ran down Armande's spine. Only he knew what the night would hold.

The wall was no problem, and Armande stood cloaked in it's inner shadow within seconds; the lawn would leave him open, however, so he waited until he was certain no one glanced his way, and sprinted from tree to tree until he was safely hidden in the topiary and boughs of the garden that fronted the manor house. It was almost too easy.

Armande circled to the darkest side of the house and scaled the finely molded exterior to an open second-floor window. Before slipping inside, he scanned the moon-bathed darkness with his Eagle vision; there was a slumbering form under the sheets in the large bed, but that was no concern. Armande crossed the room like a shadow, the sleeping stranger none the wiser.

The hallway was empty, the door unlocked. He could practically hear the heart of the man he hunted.

The door stood before Armande. Solid, shut. Unlocked.

No lights were lit within. The muffled sounds of a married man with a prostitute met Armande's ears, and he could have laughed. Well. At least the last few moment's of his life would be well spent.

Neither the noble nor his whore noticed the door open, nor Armande slide into the dark beside the windows. They were too entangled in the act to notice him move closer, stand just beyond the bed curtains, and wait.

The first thing the noble knew of his assassin was the whisper of cold metal slip from its sheath into his spine. He died instantly.

The prostitute stared in horror as blood seeped down the body on top of her; she looked up at Armande, and terrified recognition filled her eyes.

"Armande? I-I didn't know..! I didn't know he was your target! Please..."

"It's quite alright," Armande murmured, thrusting the dead man to the floor. He grabbed her arm and dragged her near. One hand encircled her throat and she struggled to breathe; Armande merely smiled. This, more than anything, frightened the courtesan further.

"You have made it quite easy to dispatch him... Marie?"

Marie couldn't speak around the hand gripping her throat, nor move from fear. She merely stared at Armande, silently pleading. This seemed to delight him, and he laughed. His grip tightened.

Suddenly, he grasped the back of her head and pressed her lips to his own, crushing them in the process and almost certainly bruising. He released her throat and shoved her back on the bed. Before she could give in to even a moment's relief however, Armande had unlaced his own breeches and dragged her to the edge of the bed.

Desmond almost lunged out of the Animus, horrified.

"Oh my God!" he yelled, fighting the urge to vomit. Rebecca was an ill shade of white, and Lucy's eyes were huge. Desmond glanced over at Shaun; he stared back at Desmond, and the two shared a moment of understanding and sickening, disbelieving rage. This was so wrong.

"I-I-I can skip this, I th-think," Rebecca stammered. "Yes! Here, he's not in the house anymore."

Languidly, Armande stretched back in his corner of the tavern. This table had become exclusively his; it was almost always empty when he entered the bar, and when it happened to be occupied, someone would lean over to the offenders and whisper to them that he had walked in the door. Sometimes they moved away hurriedly. Sometimes they didn't. It was always fun when they didn't.

He replayed the night's events with glee, skipping to the part when he plunged his blade into the noble's neck, then plunged other things into the now-dead courtesan. Her neck had snapped like fine crystal under his fingers; he honestly wasn't certain which sensation he was more fond of, her desperate attempts to stop his rape of her, or that most rare release of pressure that came from a spine giving way in his hand. He rarely had the opportunity to kill women, and they were so much more fragile than men; so much more... breakable.

His thoughts were interrupted, however, by the approach of a pair of men from across the bar. He watched them, not bothering to hide his appraisal, not bothering to push his dark hood back so that they could look in his eyes. If his visitors were here for what he suspected they were, his eyes may deter them if they got a good look.

"Greetings," one of the two offered awkwardly. Armande grinned slowly, like a wolf who sees a sheep alone in the dark.

The two men were obviously not peasants, nor likely to frequent a place like this. If Armande could be trusted to guess, and it was one of the few things he could be trusted to do, they were the servants of a noble. Come to request an audience.

Five minutes dialogue proved his guess correct.

"Agreed."

The old man blinked in surprise, and watched Armande from across the coffee table for a long minute before responding. "You haven't heard a word from me of our business here. Not the situation, not even the target. You agree unconditionally? You are a foolish young man."

Unable to stop himself, barking laughter erupted out of Armande's chest and did not subside for some time. He waved over a servant and took a cup of coffee, not in the least bit worried that it may be tampered with. His host was obviously growin impatient; Armande sighed heavily, still with a wide grin on his face.

"It has been a LONG time since anyone called me young man," he explained, still chuckling.

"You mock me?" the aristocrat scoffed.

"Yes, I mock you," Armande replied, serious in a blink of the eye, and setting down the coffee cup. He leaned forward intently on his elbows. "I mock your pretentious assuption that I care who or when or what you want me to do. The hour is a testament to what you do not want overheard, the secrecy of sending two unmarked, androgynous asses to fetch me screams your discretion, and your invitation that I meet wih you in your home and the level to which your pompous pride has not been hurt by my mocking serves only to tell me just how desperate you are. From your jittery, sleepless mug, I see you want me to kill someone. From your lavish house and well-trained lackeys, it can only be another noble, someone richer and more pompous than you, for to seek me, you need assurance that it will be done the first time without mistakes. You have not spoken your name, not that I care, a sign of what you have to lose if you are discovered. And you are willing to pay an obscene sum of francs, if that obnoxious jingling from you manservants pocket is to be any indication." Armande leaned back in the plush divan, satisfied that his host had been appropriately silenced. "It is all I need to know to agree. To fulfill the contract, I need only a name."

"Leandre Touveilles," the old man answered sharply.

"It will be done," Armande replied softly, leaning forward again. "If the price is worth my time."

"I feel it will be." Waving his servant over, the noble took the purse of coins from him and handed it across the table to Armande. Armande held out a hand; the bag was heavy. He didn't need to look inside it. From the shape and weight of the coins, he was quite satisfied with the offer.

"Very well."

Armande stood and walked away. Though the three men present all watched him go, none could discern exactly when he disappeared into the shadows, or exactly how he had slipped from the room.


	5. Chapter 5

The hall swirled with bright colors of ladies' dresses and the sounds of the orchestra at the far end. Bright candles glowed from the chandeliers, and the breeze of a warm summer's night wafted in through the great open doors leading to the garden. Laughter and the sounds of clinking glasses flared like drops of bright sound against the general hum of the night's gathering. A night of frivolity, and carefree living.

But with living, must necessarily come death.

Armande danced with a young lady whose name he didn't care to learn, smiling and flirting and at home amongst the rich and thoughtless. He blended with them as easily as he did any crowd, adopting their behaviors and dress, and burying the glint of sadism in his eye, until the only glint the nobles saw was one of a delivish, suave flirt that their daughters could safely spend the evening chasing.

As the dance ended and Armande stopped to applaude with the rest of the dancers, he gazed about the hall in his Eagle vision. His eyes landed on the man he had come here to kill.

Viscount Leandre Touveilles was not what he seemed.

Armande had come here tonight, ready to slip a hidden blade repeatedly into a fat, slovenly old aristocrat whose time to die was far overdue, making a scene at his own party and ensuring that the entire French populace found sound sleep difficult to come by with the extravagence of his kill. There had, after all, been no inclination for discretion when the contract had been made where the assassination itself was concerned.

What Armande had found was a fellow assassin.

Leandre was a lion of a man, strong and powerful and at least Armande's own size. It was impossible to tell from this distance, but Armande would not doubt that there was a hidden blade secreted up Leandre's sleeve. And in Eagle vision...

Leandre burned blue, more fiercely than many of the Brotherhood's finest assassins.

For the first time in years, Armande hesitated. When his target had first entered the hall, he had been completely taken aback; who would have suspected? Even Leandre's wife was made of blue fire. But then, it made more sense. He knew there was a family stationed here, in France. But he had assumed they would be in Paris. Not here.

Pieces began to click into place the further into the evening he went.

It had been two hours, and Armande was no closer to fulfilling his contract. The shock of his discovery had made him wary, and he highly doubted that Leandre would allow him to sneak up and stab him. No, this man would be no fool. Armande would have to wait, and plan this out before the attempt was made.

And he would have to leave here before he was discovered.

Leandre, after all, would know exactly who he was. All he had to do was look with his Eagle eyes, and he would see Armande. The thought made Armande's blood pound in anticipation of a challenge. He had not been challenged in years, either.

These thoughts churned about his mind as he twisted and glided through the dance floor, all up until he saw a prize even more enticing than the murder of an assassin.

It was a girl, younger than many here, innocently unaware that she was watched. Her hair was delicately bound in fashion on top of her head, and her smile was that of a child enoying a night's fun without care.

Her face was barely visible through wisping tendrils of blue that all but obscured her in Armande's Eagle sight.

Leandre's daughter, Dahlia. Armande knew the assassin had two daughters, one older and married, and this, his youngest. And suddenly, Armande had a plan.

Weaving through dancers, subtley, so as not to draw the attention of her father, Armande inched ever closerto Dahlia. She was small. So small... Her neck couldn't have been thicker than his arm, and much less solid. The crack of bone as he had broken the whore's neck only a few nights prior echoed in his mind, haunting him, torturing him with a craving to do the same here.

"Might I have this dance?" he requested cordially, offering his hand to Dahlia, just as the previous waltz had ended.

Her eyes (so innocent, Armande was burning to destroy that innocence...) took him in curiously, then shyly. Armande was not an unattractive man, and with only a few goading smiles and kind words, she had agreed.

Such a pleasant creature, he couldn't help thinking. Dahlia was all smiles and laughter, like spring-turning-summer. His blood was in flames with the desire to be the winter that would corrupt that summer. She loved the very fact of dancing, she loved just being in motion, and being with him; it was quite obvious that despite his at least twenty year seniority, she was quite smitten with him. All the better.

He waited three dances. He put all his energy and stamina into exhausting her with his pace, ensuring she had no time to rest. She didn't notice; Dahlia was oblivious, enjoying too much the night's entertainments. But in the bright flush in her skin and her slight shortness of breath, Armande knew it was finally time.

"It is quite hot in here," he said to her, taking her hand. "Would you like to step out to the gardens for a moment, out in the cool air?"

She nodded, and followed as Armande led her, alone, out the doors and into the night.

The moon was bright, even after the glow of the candlelight. Dahlia breathed the rich scent of flowers in and leaned against the stone edge of the patio.

"What a beautiful night, is it not?" she asked, obviously expecting his agreement.

Armande watched the delicate swell of under-developed breasts and the slight line of her neck and shoulders, her small height and thin limbs. So weak, so enticing... "Yes, quite so," he answered softly.

She turned too soon and saw the bright desire of bloodlust in his eyes, but being so innocent she had no idea what it was. It still made her wary, however, and she turned away again, slightly uncomfortable.

This was the time. He would murder her, here, and wait until the commotion started. When her father came out, crowded by friends and mourners, Armande would plunge his blade into Leandre's neck until there was nothing but blood and the odd scrap of flesh to be recognized from the mess. Blood rushed into Armande's groin, inflamed with the thought of her neck snapping under his hands. Maybe he could draw it out. Maybe he could lure her into the bushes, or even back to his own rooms. Maybe...

Armande froze, barely trusting himself to breathe. His hands dropped and his shoulders stiffened, and everything clicked into place.

Like the flip of a switch, the smile was back and he took Dahlia's hand. "I'm afraid I must go, my dear," he murmured, kissing her hand. She protested politely, but he could see she was somewhat relieved to see him go; he grinned to himself. For now.

Armande vanished into the deepening night, mind racing.

Desmond blinked into the light.

"Back already?" he teased, trying to lighten the dark mood Armande had set.

It was no use; Rebecca, Shaun, and Lucy all seemed withdrawn, reluctant to speak. Abnormally so. Desmond frowned.

"What?" Desmond glanced between the others. His curiosity was melting into suspicion; Rebecca fiddled endlessly with her headset, Lucy rolled her bottom lip under and refused to meet his eyes, and Shaun wouldn't look at him at all, determinedly staring at a largely blank computer screen.

"What... what's going on?"

"Desmond..." Lucy began. She sighed and dropped her hands, defeated. "There's something you should know... about the memory we've been looking for. We've known for a while-well, suspected, not known-we weren't sure until this last session..."

Shaun made a small noise, half grunt, half cough.

Rebecca's mouthpiece snapped off as her hand slipped, and she busied herself trying to reattach it.

Desmond's chest tightened. "Is this about that girl? Dahlia?"

"It is," Lucy agreed. "It has... everything to do with her."

"Armande has some kind of plan for her," Desmond confessed.

"I'll bet he does," Shaun murmured with a disgusted click of his tongue.

"Shaun!" Lucy said sharply, warning. Turning back to Desmond, the sharpness disappeared, eclipsed again by the disconcerting unease.

"Tell me what's happening, ok?" Desmond snapped. "Stop all the dancing around the subject."

"Dahlia is an ancestor of yours, too, Desmond," Lucy answered, snapping in response. She took a breath, and continued in the silence her answer brought. "She and Armande..."

"But he's almost forty! And she's... she's..."

"Fourteen.

Desmond's mouth hung open in shock. "That's..."

"That's life in eighteenth century France," Shaun muttered.

"He's only 37- that's not quite forty," Rebecca chimed in sheepishly.

"There's more, Desmond. And you won't like this." Again, a strange... awkwardness grew, and Desmond glared at Lucy until she spoke again. "Dahlia wasn't... a willing participant."

All eyes riveted on Desmond. It was a few heartbeats before he understood. "Oh, God... no..."

"Yes," Lucy replied, leaning against the desk and dropping her eyes to the ground.

"You can't expect me to... I can't... We'll skip it, right?"

Rebecca finally spoke up. "Shaun and I have been combing through memories, histories, everything we can find. We tried to put you in later, but things change so rapidly and in so little time, there's really no expecting you to synch up with Armande at all after the fact. Soon after, the Revolution starts, and Armande... well he doesn't come back to the vault's plan again. The information we need... the map of the vault, the real locations... he puts them away and never looks at them again. Between this memory and his death, we can't track down a trace of what we need."

"SO I SHOULD BE ABLE TO SYNCH UP WITH A RAPIST BEFORE, BUT NOT AFTER THE FACT?" Desmond roared. All three flinched, but Lucy stood up and yelled back.

"You should be able to do what we need you to, Desmond!" Her face was inches from his; she wasn't far shorter than him, and was just as angry. "You've killed, murdered, burned, shot, stabbed, poisoned, drowned, and tortured hundreds of people through your ancestors. Why is this any different?"

"Because the lines are blurring, Lucy!" Desmond shouted, throwing up his hands. As if realizing what he was doing, he took a step back. "Six months ago, I couldn't have killed anyone. I couldn't do the things I do everyday, these days. I don't know what I'm capable of, anymore."

With that, Desmond spun on his heel and stalked from the lab. Rebecca, Shaun, and Lucy watched him go with identical expressions of anxiety and pity.

"Are you sure we need this one?" Rebecca asked timidly. She had sunk ino her desk chair and watched Lucy, now, waiting for some kind of assurance. Lucy nodded.

"We do. Time isn't on our side."

"Will he do it, though?"

Lucy thought about it, leaning back against the desk. She shrugged. "He will. He knows he will, too."

Desmond was curled on his side on his tiny bunk when Lucy went in to gauge the damage. He didn't ignore her, as she was expecting. His eyes slid over his shoulder briefly, met hers, then disappeared as he turned back towards the wall.

"What did Subject 16 die from?"

Lucy had no idea what this had to do with anything, but answered anyway. "He killed himself. I... saw him do it."

"And you didn't stop him?"

This time, Lucy felt a hint of the direction they were headed. She walked closer and sat down on the bed under Desmond's bunk, out of his line of sight. "No, I didn't. By then... He was so, so far gone, Desmond. Even Abstergo would have seen that. And the levels he was diving into within the Animus... That video you pieced together of Adam and Eve- even I hadn't seen that. I don't know how he got it, or how he hid it in the system without even me knowing."

"He was going back without the machine. He was losing himself in the past, and doing his own searching whenever he was alone."

Lucy said nothing to that. There was no way Subject 16 could have been at that level. Was there? Yet... there was no other way those glyphs could have been put into the Animus. Someone had to be there to run it. He couldn' have done it all himself.

"Subject 16 is dead, Desmond. You're still alive. We won't put you into the machine again and again like... like I did with him."

"Like the Templars did with him."

Biting her tongue, Lucy held back the words. With my help...

"Look, Desmond," Lucy got to her feet and climbed up the rails of the bunk to peer over at his back. "I guess I don't really get why this is so different..."

"You don't?" Desmond asked, shocked. He twisted around in the narrow bed and looked at her. Surprise turned to disbelief and he scoffed, seeing the truth of it on Lucy's face. "You really don't get it? Man... Well, let me clue you in. Templars. Guards. Corrupt men and women and their lackeys and people that hurt others. What do they all have in common?"

You killed them? Lucy decided that was probably the wrong answer and tried to find a better one. "They've... well, they've killed people. They work for their own gain. They don't waste much concern on others."

"Thay aren't victims," Desmond answered harshly. "They hurt others and do what they want, but even as I stabbed their eyes, throats, and hearts out, I never once thought of them as 'victims'. Only targets." He rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling as understanding passed over Lucy. Her eyes saddened.

"Dahlia is a victim?"

Desmond didn't answer. Lucy knew she was right.

Lucy stepped off the bed and back to the floor. She backed to the door and stopped, eyes downcast, wondering if there was a right response for Desmond at the moment. She decided that there wasn't, and opened the bedroom door.

"Lucy."

She stopped and turned back. Desmond still wasn't facing her.

"Get the Animus ready. I... I'll be out in a few minutes."

"You don't want to rest-?"

"No!" Desmond cursed viciously at himself before reigning in his temper. Lucy frowned. Desmond never used to have a temper. "No," he repeated. "I... want to get this over with."

Lucy nodded, suddenly wanting very much to get out the door and close it behind her. Close him out, cut him off for the moment, as if he was too much to bear. Stunned, she just nodded again and slipped into the hallway, shutting the door a little too quickly behind her.

Desmond hadn't meant to fall asleep. But before he knew it, he was sitting with Altair, feet dangling over a rooftop that looked out over the sea. They were in Acre, and the moon was rising.

Altair crouched beside Desmond, staring out over the sea intently. He pushed his hood back, letting the sea wind brush his shaggy hair back from his face. Desmond's face, altered only slightly through the generations.

"It bothers you, what you must do to the girl?"

"Of course it does," Desmond responded, resigned. "Wouldn't it bother you?"

Altair didn't respond immediately; his dark eyes scanned the moonlit horizon for some time before he nodded. "Yes, I suppose it would. But then," a sly smile formed and he glanced sidelong at Desmond, "I suppose it didn't bother you terribly to watch MY exploits with Maria."

"I had no control over that," Desmond replied quickly, hating the color that flamed into his face, and wishing he didn't feel like such a kid when he spoke with Altair. He was almost thirty, dammit, but Altair's timeless wisdom always made him feel immature. Untested. Silly.

Altair sobered. "But this is different, I confess. Such an invasion, such a violation... death would be more merciful."

"But Armande doesn't kill her. He... rapes her," Desmond forced out the last, gritting every word between clenched teeth. "He rapes her for her blood, for the drop of Assassin's blood she can pass on."

"Hardly a drop," Altair pointed out. He had turned and sat on the stone, legs loosely crossed as he spoke. "My coupling with Maria was worrisome to my comrades because she was no Assassin. Not only her Templar ties, but also her lack of our blood gifts were cause for concern. My children did not appear any weaker, but I imagine generations of such dilution would, eventually, thin out our ranks completely. Once Armande was banished, no woman Assassin would bear his child, and I doubt he could have forced himself on one of our number so easily. Dahlia was... softer. She knew nothing of her heritage, and had at least half Assassin blood to offer any child of Armande's. For him, it must have seemed too great an opportunity to pass."

"She's fourteen! She's barely old enough to have children at all! Couldn't he wait? Dammit!"

"Such is the way of this culture he and the girl belong to. France? By your description, I assume the girl's parents were already searching out a husband for her, if they had not found one already."

Desmond clicked his tongue, annoyed and having no words to throw back. "You seem very accepting of this."

"Don't misunderstand, Desmond," Altair swung his own booted feet over the stone roof's edge and stared once again out at the sea. "What Armande has done, and what you must do, is a despicable act. If I were alive when Armande was banished, I would have hunted him down and killed him for what pain he will cause his victim. It is not our way. But neither, is it, to die without a descendant. For centuries we have lived with the unspoken creed that none die childless; Armande, perhaps, wished to keep this one tenant, even when he had forsaken all others."

"You can't really believe that."

"I do not," Altair agreed darkly.

Desmond leaned back until he lay flat on the roof, staring up at the European stars and thinking about the danger from one star closing in on his own time. Minerva's words more than upset him; they made him so scared he was worried that at any moment he might go batshit crazy and join Subject 16. He had discussed that worry with Altair, who accepted the warning easily. He had, after all, seen it through the Apple.

"If I refuse, it will be a step farther from fixing whatever needs fixing to keep Earth from turning into a frying pan," Desmond commented. The hinted irony was just another aspect of the situation that irritated him; in order that save the world, he had to commit an unspeakable crime upon not only an innocent, but his own ancestor.

"Can you not... synch? Can you not 'synch' with Dahlia to discover the secrets you need?"

Desmond coughed, half laugh, half horrified. "Great! Either watch myself rape someone, or watch myself being raped. But no... Rebecca said it's hard to get different genders to match up. It only works well when I synch up with male ancestors. Besides; Dahlia probably doesn't even know what we need, if she is as oblivious as she seems."

Altair nodded. "It makes sense."

Silence grew between them. The only sound was the lapping ocean waves and the soft rustling of the eagle in her nest a few feet overhead. She keened softly, questioning, then settled back into sleep.

"I've been having a dream lately," Desmond began softly. Uncertain, he tried to find the words to describe what he had seen so many times, now. "You... chase me down and kill me. But at the last minute, we change places, and I'm the one killing you. I say something at the beginning of the dream that just drives you insane with anger."

This seemed to cause Altair a moment's shock. "What do you say to me?" he asked softly.

Desmond shrugged. "I have no idea. I can't hear a thing, or at least, I can't remember it."

"Ah, such is the way of dreams," Altair answered in an uncharacteristically vague manner. He stood slowly, dusting off (unnescessarily) the white folds of his robe and armor as he did. Desmond got to his feet as well.

"Go," Altair instructed, turning away. "Do the unthinkable, but don't forget who you are. Desmond Miles. Before you met me or knew any of what you have since seen, you already knew who and what you are. Do not change now, for to give the first inch is to pave the way for many miles to come."

The sun rose over the ocean.

"Desmond?"

Blinking, Desmond looked over at Lucy, again hanging from the side of his bunk to see him. He nodded and waved her away.

"Sorry," he climbed down and stood next to her, rubbing his eyes. "I didn't know how tired I was."

Lucy nodded, brows twitching with the effort not to frown. "Are... Are you ready...?"

Armande and Dahlia waited. No, Desmond wasn't ready. But he nodded his head and walked towards the door anyway.

"Ready as I'll ever be."


	6. Chapter 6

Armande couldn't stop grinning as he slipped from his chambers that night and made his way to the house of the Touveilles. His boots barely touched the rooftops of the sleeping city, and he felt as if he were flying. Anticipation rose as he thought of the night to come; the Brotherhood be damned.

He would do it his own way.

The house was quiet as Dahlia brushed out her hair. She hummed softly; sleep tugged at the corners of her vision, and the candlelight was beginning to lull her in drowsiness. She set down her brush on the vanity table and stretched her arms over her head.

Unbeknownst to her, the thin fabric of her nightgown pulled taut against her body with the motion, outlining the soft curve of adolescent breasts and the slim frame of the not-quite-adult.

Dahlia Touveilles stood and blew out the candle on her dressing table. There was still one burning beside her bed, and she moved towards it to extinguish that flame, as well, when she froze.

The window curtains billowed out gently, caught in a June breeze that lifted and lowered them lazily. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled. The skin of her arms and legs raised in gooseflesh instantly, and she shivered.

The breeze died. The curtains dropped harmlessly against the sill. Dahlia breathed out, realizing that she had forgotten to do so for several moments, and half-ran to the window, drawing it shut and locking it.

"You needn't lock it," a velvet voice sounded from inside her room, and Dahlia's heart hammered with fear so profound she could not move, could barely breathe. "I will allow nothing to harm you."

Muscles tense and unwilling, Dahlia forced herself to turn and face the intruder.

"Guards!" she shouted. "Guards! Someone! Help!"

Armande took four long strides across the room and felt a flash of pleasure at the terror on the girl's face. She knew she was cornered and helpless; he could see in her eyes as she weighed her options and struggled to find an escape. Armande solved her problem.

He rested one gloved finger on her lips. "I doubt very much that anyone will come, or that anyone should hear you at all should you cry out." The fear in her eyes turned wild, and sunk into despair. Armande removed his finger and dropped his hand to her shoulder. It was deliciously small and fragile though the leather. "But let us not test my theory."

He could practically hear the rushing of power through her veins. Almost trembling himself, Armande stripped off his gloves and laid them on the table that ran across the foot of her bed. He let his bare skin brush her arm, flesh to flesh.

He could have lost control right then.

Dahlia must have seen the moment's abandon in his eyes, because she leapt into movement and made a mad rush for the door. So shocked was he at her sudden willpower, Armande hesitiated almost too long; he snatched her wrist as her fingers brushed the doorknob of her bedroom, and dragged her back into his arms.

Perhaps out of spite more than lust, Armande gripped her shoulders easily in one arm and her jaw with the other hand and kissed her savagely. She didn't struggle, but she didn't relax either; Dahlia was, it seemed, so terrified that she had finally been paralyzed with fear. When he pulled away, Armande took one look at her flimsy nightgown and laughed aloud. Hooking his fingers in the bodice, he ripped the garment down the front effortlessly. A small scream escaped Dahlia, then, and her breathing grew shallow and her head swung back and forth.

"No, no, no... please... no... no..." she began to sob softly.

This displeased Armande. Her fear and resistance had been more enticing. No matter.

He threw her onto the bed, where she tried to pull the remainder of her night clothes back about herself. He threw back the hood of his cloak, and recognition lit her face.

"You!" she breathed, and hiccupped. Trying to regain control, she cleared her throat. "Who are you? Why are you doing this?"

"Why?" Armande chuckled. He unlaced the neck of his shirt and drew it over his head, watching her. He untied his trousers, and stripped off the remainder of his clothes. It was obvious Dahlia had never seen this much of a man before, and he wondered what she thought of his weathered, scarred skin and muscles, tightly corded by the rogue life he lived. Armande held her eyes as he undressed, until he stood before her, naked.

"I do what I do because I can, my dear," he whispered, crawling slowly, sinuously onto the bed and nearer to Dahlia.

Almost hysterical, now, tears fell freely down Dahlia's young face. Armande pulled her to him, letting the candle beside the bed burn.

Desmond tried to block out the screams.

Finally, finally, Armande came to a shuddering halt and half-collapsed across Dahlia's unmoving form. Soft sobs still echoed through her bedchamber, but by now she had realized it was too late, and no one was coming to help. Desmond felt yet another stab of guilt, remembering the silent blades that had removed the Touveilles guards that were posted within earshot of Dahlia's room, and the wine planted in the kitchens the distract the servants and the barracks to intoxiate what men were not on guard. Armande truly had planned things well.

Desmond snapped back to attention as the world shifted into darkness, glowing forms evanescent and ghostly around him. Armande had accessed his Eagle Vision; his own body gleamed azure in pulsing threads of life as he looked down at himself.

Dahlia, as well, was a mass of intertwining blue flames, though noticeably darker, as if some life had been lost. In the lower region of her abdomen, however, the glow strengthened, a brilliant speck of light in her womb. A wide grin snaked over Armande's face as he let the vision fade. He leaned close to her face, letting his larger, muscular body crush hers slightly as he whispered to her.

"You are a mother, Dahlia," he murmured. "Congratulations."

Desmond had thought she was in complete shock. Some vestige of awareness must have been still in her, however, because at this, Dahlia's face crumpled again, and she began to weep tearlessly, as she had no more tears left to cry. Armande's grin grew wider, and he propped his chin up on one elbow.

"What should we name it, then?" He pretended to think about it. "I would prefer a son... a daughter would be just lovely, though, would she not? Doubtlessly, she would resemble you more closely than I."

Rage seethed through Desmond. He had never felt so much hatred for a person, much less his own ancestor, as he did for Armande. He wished he could rip him to pieces as his cruel teasing and the weight of his body drew more cries of misery from Dahlia, cries that Armande clearly enjoyed.

GOD, STOP IT! Desmond tried to scream.

Armande bucked off of Dahlia suddenly. Something had happened, though he wasn't sure what. Like a chill, gooseflesh rose on his arms as it had on Dahlia's hardly an hour earlier. She watched him from the bed, unable to move or sit up, no doubt from the pain. Her eyes were hollow as they stared at his antics.

Meanwhile, Armande decided it was time to leave. He dragged his pants back on and strapped his feet into his boots. He couldn't, however, resist a parting remark.

"Take care of our child, Dahlia, for I expect to be back for him one day."

Dahlia had managed to sit up on her elbows, knees drawn up to her chest, with the blanket wrapped as firmly around herself as possible. She let out a cough, or rather, a sob. "Why...? What have I done to you... for you to do this?"

"It wasn't your fault."

Both Dahlia and Armande froze suddenly in shocked silence.

Armande's hand shot to his face. The words had dropped from his mouth before he could stop them, though he had no memory of even thinking them.

Dahlia semed less concerned. Bitterly, she asked, "Then who should I credit, when I have to explain this to my father?"

"Desmond Miles," Armande answered mindlessly again. He clenched his jaws shut. Panicked, he floundered for some explanation. He tried to concentrate, to keep control.

In an attempt to dislodge whatever madness had gripped him, he punched the end table. Made of hard solid wood, it barely gave under his fist, and an angry throbbing took up residence in his hand.

"Oh my God," Lucy muttered, crouching beside Desmond as he blinked awake under the light over the Animus. "Desmond...! What did you do?"

"Put me back in!" Desmond shouted, barely giving Lucy a moment's notice.

"I have the memory," Rebecca answered hurriedly. "If we put you back now, we won't lose any time."

"Do it!"

Armande was thoroughly spooked. He stared about with his Eagle Vision, but saw no one. No one but himself and the girl, not the vaguest presence. The bizarre intrusion he had felt into his consciousness was gone, but still, he worried. It had been years since anything had made him so... afraid.

Again trying to keep his mind completely focused and sharp, Armande backhanded the post at the end of Dahlia's bed, crying out, almost a growl, as his knuckles whipped across the wood. The skin had broken, and his blood glowed red in his Eagle's sight. He let it fade, and the soft glow of the candle returned. Dahlia seemed to realize something was wrong with Armande, because she had folded herself as small as she could into the corner of her mattress and watched the man flailing about with huge, darkened eyes.

Armande stopped his harsh movements, trying to sense whatever intangible force had taken him. There was nothing. He could sense and feel nothing. He forced himself to relax, and reached for his shirt hanging on the low footboard of the bed; something, however, caught his eye as he leaned forward and Armande slowed, distracted.

A small line, a crack, had appeared on a smooth stretch of the bedpost he had just struck. Moreover, it continued up about the length of Armande's hand, then turned at a right angle and curved around half a hand's breadth.

Armande knew a secret compartment when he saw one. Lightly carved into the wood over the door was the mark of the Assassins.

Inside the compartment was a rolled sheaf of documents. Most were fairly new, a year or two old, at most, but the innermost papers sheathed within were ancient. They couldn't have been newer than a century old. And they were maps.

A harsh, cracked laugh tore from Armande's throat. And another. Soon, he was choking with it, leaning against the bedpost as if the weight of the humor was too much. He turned to Dahlia.

"To think," he snickered, "that all this time, this has been in your bedchamber! What a night this has come to be!" He pulled the rest of his garments back on, closed the secret compartment, and continued to stare at the map.

He thought about asking Dahlia more about this discovery. It would take little prying, at this point, to make her tell him anything he wanted. He glanced over at her.

From the blank, shocked look on her face, she knew nothing of this.

Armande shrugged and decided against it. After all, he didn't want to traumatize her into a miscarriage. No... He had what he wanted, and if he wanted it to stay that way, it was time to go.

But, one last errand to run before he disappeared with his victories.

And the copies of the Brotherhood's secret maps.

Leandre Touveilles and his wife, Eliane, had been sleeping for some time when a creeping, uneasy shiver crawled over the skin of Leandre's neck. He was awake almost instantly.

He couldn't hear anything out of the ordinary. Leandre lay still, breathing deeply and evenly with his eyes closed as if sleeping. Eliane was truly asleep beside him, unaware of whatever strange sensation had roused her husband. But roused Leandre was, and he couldn't possibly return to slumber. He listened again, unsure and unwilling to break the illusion of sleep.

A sudden scream shattered the silence and Leandre shot from his bed. Eliane woke with a start as well, a thin blade in her hand before Leandre could see her draw it. For himself he strapped on his hidden blade and snatched up his sword, not bothering to even pull a robe over his bare chest as he sprinted out his bedroom door and after the source of the scream. Eliane followed close behind.

But where were the house guards?

Another scream echoed through the halls, and Leandre and Eliane realized with a chill that it was a young girl. Leandre's steps grew quicker and faster and he burst into the great hall.

The windows in the far wall were open, and the moonlight poured inside.

A hooded man, near Leandre's own height and mass, filled the door that opened into the garden. He gazed across the hall with disdain, even amusement, that was tangible, even silhouetted as he was and as distant. In one hand he gripped the hair of a servant girl, who sobbed softly as Leandre and Eliane froze.

The intruder glowed red in Leandre's Eagle vision. And he knew who it was.

"Armande de Seville," Leandre growled. His shoulders softened and he stalked forward, letting his sword droop to almost trail along the floor. "What do you here, Exile?"

Armande threw the servant aside by her hair where she lay, stunned. Leandre couldn't be sure she was alright; she didn't move. But his attention was irretrievably fixed on the intruder. The outcast.

Eliane hung back; where were the guards? Leandre thought furiously. How had this rat crept so easily inside this base? His eyes swiveled back to meet those of his wife; Eliane nodded, understanding.

But before any action could be taken, Armande spun about with a flash of a grin under his hood and disappeared into the night.

"Go!" Eliane hissed, dashing forward after Armande.

"Careful, love!" Leandre whispered as the two sped across the hall and into the night.

Armande's glowing form was already far across the lawn, vaulting the outer wall and making for the maze of the town beyond. Eliane and Leandre followed, seeing still none of their assassin guards. It became quite clear what had become of them when Leandre nearly stumbled over the first discarded corpse. Still running, he met Eliane's eyes again; they should have known better than to be shocked at the ease with which Armande had penetrated their defenses. But still, shocked they were.

Once in the city proper, it was to the rooftops. Even if Armande were still on the ground, it would be easier to overtake him from above, and if they remained on the ground with him overhead... better to chance the open skyline. Leandre drew himself over the roof of the nearest building first, then stopped momentarily to aid Eliane, who was slowed by her cumbersome nightgown. The moment she had her footing on the shingles, she took her knife to the skirt of the gown, shearing it above knee length to allow her legs freedom; she did the same to her billowing sleeves, taking them at the shoulders.

"Let's not waste more time," she murmured, intent on her prey and already racing into the night.

Armande was not far ahead. His trail glowed an angry red after his fleeing footsteps. As he ran, Leandre wondered again, why was Armande here? Why had he stole into Leandre's house? A shiver whispered down Leandre's spine as he realized that he hadn't bothered to check on Dahlia, or the secret compartment hidden in her bedroom. Was it the maps...? Fear spurred Leandre faster, and he overtook Eliane, who pushed faster still to keep up.

"There!" Eliane hissed, and before Leandre could think or react, she had leapt like the eagle from the rooftop and was plummeting towards a pulsing red beacon on the ground below.

This time, the fear spun within Leandre's gut like a tornado.

The figure caught Eliane as she neared him and threw her, letting the momentum of her fall carry her into the solid wall of a nearby shop. A crack resounded through the street, and Leandre's heart almost stopped, even as he was leaping down after Armande himself.

Eliane lived; her ragged breaths were audible as Leandre dropped down the side of a building, handhold to handhold until his bare feet hit the packed dirt. Armande seemed little concerned with her. He faced Leandre, not worried, not ashamed. He threw back his hood, grinning, as always, his wolfish grin.

"Good evening Leandre," Armande greeted, bowing his head forward, eyes never leaving Leandre's. Eliane stirred, pushing herself up on one elbow, and Armande glanced back at her. "And good evening to you, too, Madame Touveilles. Shall I call you Eliane? We are all brothers here, after all. More so than you realize." He snickered at this last, breaking his perfect composure and utterly infuriating Eliane. She got to her feet unsteadily, favoring her left side; Leandre suspected at least one rib was broken.

"How dare you?" she growled. "How dare you invade our house and murder our people? For what pupose? What has your foul mind given rise to?"

Leandre watched Armande carefuly, waiting. The moment an opening presented itself, he would take it.

"My foul mind?" Armande snickered again. "Well, I suppose it is quite filthy. I suppose you have it in mind to clean it for me?"

Eliane's face flamed and she seemed about to attack; her injured rib decided against it and she held her ground. Leandre interrupted.

"Armande," he said sternly. Armande turned to face him, not completely letting Eliane out of his line of sight. "What were you doing in my house? Why have you attacked my people as such?"

Armande's grin was wide in the moonlight; white teeth glinted, fanglike. "Well, I knew you wouldn't have me if I sent a request of audience, so I decided to make my own welcome."

"Why?" Leandre asked again.

"I had an appointment," Armande replied. Armande pulled out a matchbook, as if about to light a cigar.

Leandre knew what Armande was about to do a second before it happened. The entire situation lit up in Leandre's mind's eye and he realized the trap he and Eliane had run into like amateurs. But Armande had already let the flaming match fall from his hands, the ground lapped flames along a line of oil to the box of explosives conealed amongst the crates at Leandre's back. Armande flowed behind cover like a ghost, leaving Leandre and Eliane to scarmble like fools away from teh blast. Eliane was far enough away that she was able to gain enough distance; Leandre was not as lucky.

Shrapnel shards of wood sliced into Leandre's back and fiery pain consumed him as at least one large section of skin was completely burned away. He screamed, agony sizzling through his veins as he was thrown to the ground.

Stunned, Leandre could only lie facedown for too long; boots crunched in the dirt beside his head, and Armande was crouched beside him. Leandre struggled to rise, to fight, but his body simply wouldn't respond fast enough. Every motion was slow, and agonized. He looked up, and Armande's face leering down at him was a blur of shadows in the firelight.

Armande leaned closer still, and Leandre heard Eliane shriek in the distance.

"You're daughter was... delicious," Armande whispered.

Hollowness, a draining of all emotion or thought overtook Leandre as Armande's meaning sunk in. And then there was a thin blade severing Leandre's spine, and he was dead.

"No!" Eliane shouted again, rushing Armande, ignoring the pain in her ribs; the pain in her heart was much greater. Armande leapt away from the body of Viscount Touveilles, dodging Eliane's initial attack easily. He slashed inward towards her injured rib, but where her torso had been one moment, it was gone the next. Her motions blurred in the moonlight, and Armande found himself too slow on occasion. Their blades clashed off each other, as the fire behind them consumed and lit their battle in an angry red glow.

Eliane feinted towards his knees, as if to knock them out from under Armande, then came back around at his face and landed a solid punch to his cheekbone. Armande, unbalanced, required a moment too much to regain equilibrium; Eliane had already set her feet for a killing blow. Her dagger slashed like a diving hawk for Armande's heart, through the thin gap in his armor where the thin blade would slip through easily.

Armande desperately threw his weight back, and Eliane's dagger met the hardened leather of his chest armor, cleaving a deep gash across the Assassin's symbol tooled precisely into the molded hide. Her strike had left her wide open, but Armande's own attempt to dodge gave him no opportunity to regain his feet first and finish her. Instead, he kicked out at her stomach, and this time connected. As Eliane spun out across the street, Armande flipped about, lithely gaining his feet again a few steps away.

Her ribs had been struck again, and Eliane writhed, tremors of pain shooting up her arms and down her legs. Armande grasped her by the hair, ready to snap her neck, as he had Marie.

Eliane struck out again with a fist and caught the pressure point under Armande's arm; the limb went dead immediately, and he dropped her.

He glared down at the bitch, fury consuming him, and found that the same fury consumed her eyes, as well. Looking down at her, sprawled on the ground, clinging to consciousness as the agony of her broken ribs threatened to drag her under, Armande realized something. That it would be ever so much crueler to let her live.

With that, he gave her a wide smile and a cordial court bow.

"No," she rasped as he turned and stalked away into the night. "No! Come back here, you bastard!"

Armande laughed to himself as the night swallowed him, feeling the jagged blackness of a broken heart claw at his back as he left her lying in the middle of the dark street.

"What do we have here?"

Armande had returned to his rooms to find a visitor waiting. Gerard left his hood pulled forward over his face, but Armande knew who it was. Gerard continued to stand in the doorway, not threatening, not angry. Just sad and tired. He sighed and shook his head.

"What have you done, Armande?"

Armande didn't answer. He didn't like Gerard's tone, the way his voice held little scold or disapproval, only disappointment. Gerard finally stood up straight.

"I've done with you, Armande," he announced. "As have the Brotherhood. They have instructed me to tell you of their denial of your request, as I told you they would. For myself, however, I have this to say: leave France, Armande. Go to Marseilles, go to the shipyard at the edge of the city. I'm certain you'll find the nearest point on that map is across the sea, far form here. Go away, Armande de Seville. You... There is nothing left here for you to destroy."

Gerard walked towards Armande and stopped a pace from him. He gazed out from under his hood, as if thinking. Armande watched him, wary. Gerard shook his head. He said nothing more, just walked past Armande and away, down the street, into the shadows.

Armande stood for some time in the street. Gerard's final farewell should have come as a relief, finally done with that coward and fool. Since they had been boys, Armande had had to deal with Gerard's conscience, holding him down, berating him, irritating him. Oddly, though, it left Armande with an unfamiliar... discomfort.

Six months later, Armande found himself watching the dark shore of a new land approach through the moonlight.

Gerard had been correct. The nearest point on the Brotherhood's secret maps was across the ocean. There was one nearer to France, but Armande knew the place and knew it was too well-guarded for him to breach. Thus, he had taken a ship to the Indies, and from there, gained passage ona pirate vessel to take him to the new America.

Desmond watched Armande travel inland, through virgin territory, until he stood at the concealed entrance in the side of a mountain.

Armande drew his hidden blade and thrust it into the opening in the mechanism that seemed made for it.

Light flooded into Desmond's retinas as he blinked out of the Animus into a flurry of motion.

"What...?"

"We're found, Desmond," Lucy explained shortly, packing her laptop away and making for the door. Shaun and Rebecca were likewise stashing pieces of equipment and wires into boxes to be loaded back into the van. Desmond hurried to help, cursing that this always had to happen at the worst of times.

"What about the vault?" Rebecca asked Lucy as they dashed back and forth to and from the van. "We haven't gotten the... codes, or locks, or anything!"

"We'll have to get by," Lucy answered. "We at least know where the entrance is, and we'll have to start there and work with it."

Desmond slowed. Memories dashed through his mind's eye, memories that were not his own. Memories he hadn't seen in the Animus. He saw dark tunnels, a bridge, a lock, and the ghost of a word passing over his tongue that he couldn't quite recall. Not at the moment. He looked over at Lucy and Rebecca.

"I think we'll be fine."


	7. Chapter 7

Desmond and Lucy sheltered within the boughs of a massive, needly fir tree planted at the base of a rocky slope. This side of the mountain was dim, the moon wreathed in thick rain clouds, but just on the other side spotlights illuminated a mass of workers, men hollowing out a entrance to a vault they hoped was still there.

It was still there.

Desmond swatted at the back of his neck again. The branches of the tree were close, and needles poked down the neck of his hoodie and prickled at the skin there. Again, he traced the path between the base of the tree and the spot Armande had stood to open the vault with his eyes. It was several hundred feet up the mountainside, and a largely exposed climb at that. The Templars had posted watchmen and cameras on all sides, but soon, that problem would be moot.

"Ok," Rebecca's voice came through over the headphone. "I've got a loop running for them to stare at. I'll leave the guards up to you."

Lucy and Desmond nodded in unison. They said nothing; both knew what to do. Once the cameras were running old feeds back to the main HQ, no one would see the sentries disappear.

The moment he dropped from the tree, Desmond lost sight of Lucy in the underbrush; he ranged through the forest in his assigned direction. There were eight guardposts on this side of the mountain; Lucy would take four, and Desmond the same. They were evenly spaced and easily visible. Way too easy.

The guardposts were merely tents erected just at the forests' edge, only big enough to house two armed sentries from the coming rain. Nothing too difficult to slip around, especially in the dark. Even Desmond's white sweater didn't seem to draw attention.

Desmond tossed a good-sized rock across the space behind the tent. Not enough to be too obvious. Just enough to...

Moments later one lone man with an automatic rifle walked out to inspect the sound. He was bigger than Desmond, and Demond didn't have a gun on him, but it was so, so easy to creep up behind him and slip a blade into his spine.

As Desmond rode the body to the ground and landed with a muffled thump, the guard's clean Abstergo uniform became the dusty, ragged, mismatched uniform of a Revolutionary soldier. His helmet became a broad-rimmed hat, and his automatic rifle laying beside the corpse was suddenly a musket.

A sound behind him snapped Desmond back into reality. The second guard had come out when the first hadn't responded, and now was approaching the spot where Desmond and the body were concealed in the underbrush.

Almost before he had instructed his body to do so, Desmond launched out of the brush at the second guard and dispatched him as well. A flicker of a memory that wasn't his slipped before his eyes, but Desmond suppressed it and let it pass.

The other three guard stations were identical; the distraction and luring ruse worked like a charm. In what seemed like no time, Desmond was meeting Lucy halfway up the mountain.

"Trouble?" she whispered.

"None," Desmond answered, and the two continued up the increasingly steep slope.

As he went, Desmond's mind wandered.

The dark of night became midday. Lucy vanished, the details altered, and Desmond's booted feet were no longer his. He watched himself climb up a nearly vertical cliff face and navigate the narrow hidden path that accessed the entrance of the vault. It was quite a hike. Desmond was sweating in the savage sunlight under his dark hood and coat. But soon enough, he had passed the most treacherous leg of the trip, and managed to reach the rock face. A thin old crack between two boulders glowed gold in his Eagle vision; he had found the entrance.

"What now?" Lucy asked. She ran fingers gently over the metal lock nestled between the boulders. It was in flawless condition, not rusted or corroded over the centuries. Briefly, Desmond wondered: had Lucy seen the part of the memory where Armande activated the lock?

Desmond stepped forward and placed his vambrace against the metal. With a click, his blade shot out and the door was activated.

Dark, dank tunnels and the chill of the underground enveloped Desmond and Lucy. They flicked on their glow sticks and took a brief look around; the first chamber was a modest foyer, simple stone pillars upholding a vaulted roof, and columns of writing etched into the stone walls in neat, careful patterns. Desmond blinked into Eagle vision. The symbols were mostly dark, but a few stood out in gold.

Desmond called to Lucy to wait, and walked nearer to the closest symbol. Without Eagle vision it looked no different than the hundreds other sketched across the walls.

There were seven symbols glowing, and Desmond memorized them. He noted their pattern, size, commonalities, and locations, and examined everything about them before stepping away again. Hopefully, whatever lay ahead would find him a little more prepared.

Beyond the foyer, dirt tunnels began. Lucy and Desmond held the silence for the most part, rarely commenting on the path or the mission. Desmond knew that Lucy was watching him, keeping an eye on him, maybe even a little concerned to be alone with him.

After what she'd seen Armande do, he didn't blame her.

For himself, Desmond began to let his control loosen, and let his eyes be those of someone else, someone who had traveled these tunnels centuries ago.

Armande stole through the tunnels easily; there was no one here, and few traps to be aware of.

"Watch out," Desmond caught Lucy as she moved towards a false floor. Miraculously, it had upheld over the centuries, and the warm glow of their lights made the crumbling edges almost invisible.

"Thanks," Lucy replied with a nod.

When too many seconds passed and Desmond was still holding her upper arm where he had stopped her, he turned away awkwardly and turned to the tunnel walls for answers. They did not disappoint; the high walls were dotted with indents and rough patches to climb across.

It was difficult to determine where the fake floor ended on the far side; Desmond took to the wall first, crawling sideways until he was certain the dirt below his feet was packed and secure.

The false floor was almost too simple. Armande was suspicious; was this it? This, the patterns on the wall... There had to be more.

Desmond watched the ghostly form of Armande stalk back down the passage, away from where Desmond waited for Lucy. Impatiently, he switched his eyes back and forth between Lucy climbing carefully across the indented wall and the figure rapidly disappearing out of view.

"Let's go!" Desmond urged, turning the moment Lucy touched ground after Armande.

"What's the hurry?" Lucy asked, sprinting for a few steps to catch up.

"The Templars, of course," Desmond lied.

Soon, Armande was in sight again. Desmond watched him dodge patches of floor and copied his movements. "Do what I do," he called back to Lucy as his feet slipped into an outright jog. Armande was picking up speed, to Desmond's dismay.

Was he alone here? Armande glanced over his shoulder frequently, feeling eyes upon him. That familiar sense that he was not by himself... He scanned the darkness in Eagle vision and saw nothing but the blue glimmer of his own body and the orange radiance of the torch he carried.

Best not to waste time. He broke into a steady jog, then an easy run.

"Desmond!" Lucy called, exasperated, as he gained yet more speed.

"Just trying to reach the vault quicker," Desmond called back, barely sparing Lucy a glance, trying to keep his ancestor in view.

Ahead, Desmond's glow stick met blackness; he saw Armande leaping, and knew what to do. He saw the first post moments before he jumped for it; lucky it was still there and in good condition. They weren't posts, as he had assumed, but stone columns placed evenly across a vast chasm that the tunnel emptied into. Rushing water was audible far below; it was a long fall. Desmond wasn't worried; he was't going to fall.

He heard Lucy take the first two columns right behind him; the third she seemed to have some trouble with. Desmond had already reached the far side of the cavern, already caught up with Armande, and had already started after his Assassin relative when he heard it.

Lucy's scream.

Desmond spun around in time to guess what happened; Lucy hadn't been watching him, she had been carefully watching the columns she leapt for. As a result, when Desmond swerved off from the second-to-last jump to reach a foothold that was not in the direct line of travel, Lucy hadn't noticed. And when she reached the last jump and found there was nothing between her and the too-far distance to the chasm wall, her momentum had forced her forward.

"Lucy!" Desmond threw himself on the ground and peered over the wall, glowstick in hand. He breathed again; Lucy was clinging to the wall less than a meter down, fingers desperately clawed into a piece of wooden planking sunk into the dirt.

Desmond glanced back at Armande. He had already begun to move again, but slower, now, as if he was thinking. Desmond wasn't sure how long he would spend thinking, and didn't want to risk losing him. He had no idea how to break into the vault without Armande's help.

"Are you alright?" Desmond asked Lucy.

"Been better." She seemed to be trying to climb up; a small gasp escaped her as a piece of wood fell away under her fingers. It was rotted. The whole thing was soft and pliable, ready to fall apart. "Could I get a little help?"

"Umm..." Desmond looked back at Armande. Still thinking.

"Umm? Desmond!"

"He's going to leave!" Desmond blurted out.

"Who is? Wait... Armande? Desmond, are you seeing Armande?" She smothered a scream as another piece of wood dissolved under her hand.

"We can't do this without him!" cried Desmond, still halfway on the ground, halfway between helping Lucy and chasing Armande.

"Can you not?"

Desmond's jaw dropped. He spun around to see Altair standing on his other side, arms crossed, leaning placidly against the tunnel wall.

"You too! Is this real?"

"You've wondered that before," Altair growled, not moving. "My answer is no. This is not real. None of it is; what is real is that girl hanging over her death before you, your own pulse in your chest, YOUR life!"

"That can't be your answer!" Desmond argued, still watching Armande.

"Desmond, who are you talking to now?" Lucy shrieked, scrabbling to regain her grip and climb, unsuccessfully, up the wall. "Help!"

Desmond listened to her, and to Altair, and watched Armande, and wished he could go in three different directions.

"What will you do, Desmond?" Altair demanded. "Let her die for a ghost? Do something!"

At that moment, Armande began again to move towards the tunnel leading onwards. Desmond watched him desperately, ready to leap up and chase him again.

When suddenly, Armande looked back at him.

It was brief, cursory, but for that moment Armande's eyes locked with Desmond's, and Desmond knew that Armande knew he was there. Then, he moved on, out of sight.

Wood splintered as the planks finally gave completely under Lucy's weight.

Desmond snatched her wrist.

And for a moment felt the ghost of bone snapping.

"I've got you!" he said, reassuring himself as much as Lucy.

In less than a minute, Desmond had pulled Lucy over the edge and both of them sprawled on the dirt floor, Lucy trying to regain her breath, Desmond trying to regain his equilibrium.

In only a minute, Lucy sat up, rubbing her wrist. "I thought for a second you were going to let me fall."

"Well," Desmond stalled, trying to invent a possible excuse. "I figured you could handle that kind of thing."

Lucy scoffed. "Whatever. So..." she glanced around. "Are we alone?"

"Yeah," Desmond answered; Armande was gone, and Altair had vanished.

"Good," Lucy sighed. She got to her feet and held out a hand to help Desmond. "You know, you should have told me you were having hallucinations like that! I told you that they should only be thirty seconds, and any more than that was getting into the danger zone..."

"I know, I know. It doesn't matter now; Armande's gone. I don't think I could get it back if I wanted to."

"Desmond."

He looked over at her; Lucy's tone was always stern, but something about it set him on edge. He couldn't decide whether her expression was intent, concerned, or... something else. She gave an obviously forced smile and patted his arm awkwardly.

"We don't need Armande. We'll get in by ourselves."

Desmond chuckled. "Here's to hoping."

The two of them continued down the path together without comment. Luckily, there were no traps set after the chasm; not that Desmond or Lucy noticed or fell into, in any case.

When they finally met with a giant wall of rock, there was a very familiar mechanism waiting to be operated.

"You know what to do," Lucy prompted.

Desmond nodded and stepped forward. He placed his hidden blade against the lock, and activated the weapon.

A grating creak echoed into a black expanse beyond as a section of rock twice Desmond's height sunk into the ground, leaving a perfectly carved doorway for Lucy and Desmond to pass through.

"What's going on?" Rebecca's voice asked from their headsets. "Are you in?"

"Oh, yeah," Desmond answered, holding up the glow stick.

"We're in alright," Lucy agreed, doing the same in an attempt to see the far reaches of the vault.

The vault was, as they all seemed to be, massive. There didn't appear to be corners, rather a dome overheadTheir glowsticks were completely inadequate to fully illuminate the chamber, but luckily, the solution was not far off. Desmond clicked into Eagle Vision; a narrow pedestal a few paces before the entrance glowed gold. He walked up to it slowly, watching for any booby traps or switches.

A glyph glowed in the center of the pedestal. Desmond touched it absently; it was one that had been painted in his cell at Abstergo. In blood.

"Subject 16..." Desmond murmured absently.

Without warning, light flared from the floor. Lines of eerie blue-white light flooded the space around them, throwing shadows and shapes about that disoriented Desmond for a moment. Then he looked at the walls; they were meticulously covered, as the foyer had been, in delicately carved symbols, except these walls were glossy black glass, instead of stone. Then he looked at the ceiling.

"Not this again..." Desmond muttered.

The crank was set in the middle of the chamber. Nothing else was apparent yet, but Desmond already knew what was coming. High in the apex of the vault was a platform hanging securely from the very center of the domed roof.

Desmond looked around at the walls in Eagle vision. Again, glowing glyphs met his eyes, the same ones that had glowed gold in the entryway.

"Lucy," Desmond started. She nodded.

"I'm on it," she replied, striding to the crank.

Desmond followed her, putting away the glowstick as he went. The entire room was shaped like a giant beehive, with horizontal rows ringing the walls. There was nowhere for hooks or posts to drop from, but Desmond had no doubt that the beings who had come before had found a way.

"Ready?" Lucy asked, both hands in the arm of the mechanism. Desmond nodded. She dragged all her weight down on the lever.

The sound of millions of pounds of glass moving thundered through the chamber as the rows of the chamber rotated independently of each other, with no heed for speed, direction, or movement of the rows above or below. Desmond and Lucy found themselves sheltering in the very center, watching anxiously the moving walls and looking for the next step.

Lucy found it first. "There, Desmond!"

He raced toward the platform; he hadn't seen or noticed it appear, distracted as he had been by the sudden mass movement, but it was obivously where he needed to start. The walls were moving at a brisk speed, but Desmond was able to catch up and leap onto the platform, pulling his upper body over the edge until he could shimmy his legs over as well.

Upon standing, Desmond found himself uncomfortably close to a wall moving in the opposite direction he was going. He inched away from it.

Symbol after symbol flashed past, and Desmond had an idea.

He switched back into Eagle vision; sure enough, most of the glyphs were dark. But one on every level was glowing brilliant gold. One was approaching in his row at a discomforting speed.

Desmond made a quick assupmtion that turned out to be correct; he readied his hidden blade, searched for an opening, and thrust the weapon inside it all at the same time. He was damn lucky his blade didn't snap off, or snap his arm. It was a near miracle that the idea worked, and another platform dropped down for Desmond to leap onto. Unfortunately, at the same instant that the one opened, the stone shelf he stood on began to fold in one itself, and his legs. Desmond climbed up the next one as the previous shelf shut, already meters away with nothing but empty space hanging under his feet as he dragged himself up.

"Impressive," Lucy commented. Desmond grunted, pleased with the comment but very aware that there were over a dozen rows left to traverse this way. And each one got higher...

It was slow going; Desmond almost fell and killed himself twice. But sure enough, as he neared the roof of the chamber, and the platform got nearer, he felt no fear for the fall below, and all the excitement of an Assassin whose target was close by.

Finally, after torturous leap after leap, Desmond made a final jump for the hanging platform.

His weight triggered some mechanism in the stone, and he began to rise into the ceiling.

"Desmond!" Lucy cried from below.

"Don't worry! I'll be right back!" And then he was closed off from the vault, and face-to-face with something he had not expected.

In the center of the glassy chamber stood another narrow, simplistic pedestal. Lines of light shot out from it to illuminate the room, making clear a very undesirable fact.

The pedestal was empty.

"What?"

"There was nothing there," Desmond yelled down again as he climbed down the walls. Still trying to figure out what was going on himself, he barely heard Lucy, Shaun, and Rebecca as they debated back and forth the possibilities. He had his own debate taking place.

Desmond had assumed that for one reason or another, Armande had either failed to penetrate the vault or had elected to leave the Piece of Eden here, maybe to come back for it later. After all, if he had sold it to the Templars, why would they be hunting out this Piece, in this vault? Or had he taken it, and secreted it elsewhere? Had the vault been empty when Armande had entered it?

He reached the floor and walked towards Lucy where she stood, conversing with Rebecca and Shaun in teh middle of the chamber.

"It's just as well," she finally admitted. "It would have been a huge burden to carry this Piece, AND the Apple back to headquarters."

"Yeah," Desmond had to agree. They all had big eough target signs on their backs, without two artifacts of superhuman illusionary power in their glove box.

"Let's get back-" Lucy froze.

The mountain had begun to shake; the lights in the walls extinguished al at once, leaving Lucy and Desmond reaching for the glowsticks. A minute later, they were not necessary.

A huge expanse of wall collapsed, and brilliant spotlights burned into Desmond and Lucy's retinas; voices stopped, and dozens of faces silouhetted against the brightness stared in their direction. The Templars had mined into the vault.

"Oh, shit," Lucy hissed. Desmond silently agreed. Oh, shit.

His eyes darted towards the still-open door to the passage they had taken through the mountain. It wasn't too far away. Desmond cleared his throat slightly, drawing Lucy's attention.

Her eyes flicked towards him momentarily.

"The lights," Desmond whispered, moving his mouth as little as possible. Figures armed with shadows of rifles had already begun to approach. Lucy nodded, even as she began to hold her hands up in surrender.

In a flash of movement, Lucy swiped out her gun and took aim. The first spot light went out in a shower of orange sparks; workers and soldiers cried out, distracted, and fled from the falling equipment, even as she took aim and fired at the second.

Darkness descended upon chaos, and Lucy and Desmond didn't wait to make sure the other was moving before both ran for the passage. From the other side, Desmond activated the lock and the door slid shut, closing out the sounds of rushing, running, and shouting and backup lights went on and the sound of two dozen clips being slapped into place resounded through the vault.

Glowsticks were out an on and the two were running. They only slowed down to cross the chasm and avoid tripping the few booby traps; at those times, both of them were constantly looking over their shoulders, expecting to see the flaring lights of Templars soldiers chasing them en masse through the mountain.

Lucy and Desmond reached the outside in record time. They slipped through the exit, and were already heading down the hillside as the lock closed once again; it required a hidden blade to open, but as neither Lucy nor Desmond knew for certain what else the Templars had to work with, they didn't want to trust that the lock would hold up.

A sentry at a road block tried to stop the van; Rebecca smashed the wood bar going seventy-eight miles an hour, and they were on their way to inconspicuousness.

"That's it-let me drive!" Shaun insisted, refusing to leave Rebecca alone until she pulled over and gave him the wheel.

"Absolutely insane..." he was muttering as he secured his seatbelt inthe driver's seat. Rebecca pouted, distracting herself by checking her gear and reaching for her iPod.

As a result she didn't see the armed guard in her window.

"Rebecca!"

Shots fired, and the guard fell backwards onto the road. Rebecca stared at the two guns in front of her face. She looked over at Shaun, who simply returned them to their holsters with a passing comment.

"Saved your life."

Lucy and Desmond simply sat in the back, still recovering. Let Rebecca and Shaun do some of the work, for once.

"Hey! Hey, Rebecca!"

Rebecca stirred, not wanting to wake up. She rolled over and tried to go back to sleep.

Someone rolled her back over on her side. She blinked awake, to see Desmond leaning over her. She shook her head.

"Hey, don't take offense on this Desmond, but I don't think you're my type."

"What? No- can you do something for me real fast?"

Rebecca bit back another, more explicit comment and frowned at him. "Like what?"

"Can you run the Animus for a few minutes?"

Fully awake now, Rebecca glanced over at Lucy, asleep on the van floor a few feet away. Shaun was driving; they were still on the road, still on the run. She sighed. "I don't know..."

"I just want to see something real fast about those memories I followed yesterday."

Rebecca sat up. "I didn't think you would want to synch up with Armande again."

"I don't," Desmond answered flatly. "I want to synch up with Dahlia."

"What? I already told you that won't work well."

"I don't need it to work well. I just want to see something."

Rebecca groaned, figuring out slowly that Desmond wasn't going to let her go back to sleep until she complied. "Fine."

Less than a half hour later, Desmond was hooked up.

"Where should I send you?"

"I don't know-a few months later, a few years later. Just after... way after what happened with Armande."

"Right-e-o."

The light above Desmond began to blur, and he let his thoughts drift, his mind wander.

A castle stronghold.

Spring in full bloom, sunlight.

Horrible sorrow.

A little boy playing on a balcony overlooking a vast lawn.

And... a man... Desmond saw brief glimpses of intimacy, and shied from it, still caught in the whirlwind of Dahlia's blood memories.

The sorrow resolved and lessened. It eased with time.

Desmond let himself return to his body.

"That was all?" Rebecca asked as he climbed out of the machine. "That was what you woke me up for?"

"I just..." Desmond trailed off, not sure how or if he wanted to explain this to Rebecca. He shrugged and made his best attempt. "I wanted to make sure she was alright, that she didn't just curl up and die."

Rebecca didn't respond, but her eyes reflected understanding. She went about powering down the Animus 2.0 and left Desmond to his own thoughts.

Dahlia had recovered. She hadn't given in to despair, and had survived.

Desmond stretched out on the floor of the van near Lucy. He hadn't made a conscious effort to do so; the van just didn't afford much room. But as he looked over at her, he realized suddenly that he didn't know anything about her.

Maybe he would ask what her favorite color was. Tomorrow.

As they drove into the night on, towards the next task, Desmond drifted off to sleep.

Upon finishing this short story, you might find many questions unanswered. Like, why was the Piece of Eden missing? Why did Gerard so casually allow Armande to hunt such a valuable artifact? Why on earth were the maps hidden in Dahlia's bedroom? And why was there a contract taken in Leandre's life?

For Desmond, these questions will go unanswered. They are part of the past, and after all, some things are better left Forgotten.


End file.
